Misery Loves Company (2 page)

AT THE AGE OF THIRTY-FOUR,
Jules Belleno couldn’t believe how much routine comforted her.

She remembered watching her grandparents in their old age, wondering how anyone could be so set in their ways, so satisfied with uneventfulness. They rose at the same time every morning
 
—an ungodly hour like 4 a.m. They ate the same thing for breakfast: half a grapefruit (always split and sprinkled with Sweet’N Low), a cup of decaffeinated coffee
 
—hers with cream, his black. They’d walk the dog as soon as the sun rose. Lunch at eleven, errands or chores in the afternoon. TV dinners were served at 4 p.m., and their
last and favorite thing was to watch
Wheel of Fortune
before they found themselves in bed by seven.

It had seemed like such a ridiculous life to her. She couldn’t fathom why they wouldn’t go to a movie in the evening or to the jazz festival or do anything outside their little world. They had so much freedom and never used it.

Of course, she was in her late teens at the time and also couldn’t fathom that life was going to be anything but remarkable and spectacular. How naive she was.

Her grandparents had died within six weeks of each other, and Jules remembered thinking that was so sad. Now she understood what a gift it was. A gift that was rarely given.

She rose every day, without the help of a clock, at precisely 5:57 a.m. She never could figure out why her body chose that time, but it was where she’d landed.

By seven she’d already exercised and showered, and by seven thirty, she was cooking herself egg whites or having a bowl of cereal. Breakfast provided the most variety in her day.

A few minutes past eight, she was at her computer, logged on to her blog and her Facebook page.

Hoping the rain moves out today!
A lame status update for today, but it was all she could muster.

Within minutes, she’d gotten eight thumbs-ups and a few remarks about the weather.

She’d dreaded this day, but dread never kept any day from coming. It was also the first Tuesday of the month, the day she reviewed a book on her blog. Readers expected it. She’d
missed it once due to the flu and been surprised at how many inquiries she received about why her review wasn’t posted.

On the far corner of her desk, the book sat, looking like it was in a time-out. Jules stared at its glossy cover, its embossed-gold, royal-like lettering. She’d watched over the years how his name had grown and his titles had shrunk. It meant he was platinum to the publisher.

But this one, like the last two, was a disappointment. The quality of his work had been declining. His most current was late. Without fail, he released a book every nine months, but she’d had to wait longer for this one. With other authors, she figured it came with the territory. They got so popular and the demand so great that they began churning out books faster than they should.

But he mattered. He’d always mattered to her, since she discovered his books when she was only twenty-one. It wasn’t just that he was from her hometown. That was great and gave her a lot to blog about, but there seemed to be a special quality about his writing. Even though it was suspense and the plots could border on outrageous, there was a depth to how he wrote, as though the words came out his fingertips straight from his soul. There were treasures buried inside the paragraphs, from page to page. Sometimes you had to hunt for them, but they were there
 
—little nuggets of truth about your life, cleverly intertwined with murder, mayhem, and madness.

Jules sighed and pulled the book closer. Her fingers typed out the title: “
THE LION’S MOUTH
by PATRICK
REAGAN. Reviewed by Jules Belleno.” That was the easy part. Now came the
 
—

Knock at her door.

She moaned quietly, cut her eyes to the door. Was it already
that
time?

The knock again, this time a little heavier. If she didn’t get there fast, he’d start calling her name.

“Coming!” She forced the singsong in her tone. Opening the door, she widened her smile. “Hi, Daddy.”

“I thought you might not be home. I knocked twice.”

“You have to give me a chance to get up and walk over here.”

He smiled. “Just anxious to see you. I was in the neighborhood. You busy?”

Always a loaded question. There never was a right answer, so today she just went with no.

“Why not? Why aren’t you writing?” He stepped in and she closed the door.

“I am writing. I was about to work on my blog.”

“Real writing, Juliet. Blogging is for people who can’t write professionally. You know how capable you are. You’ve got real talent.”

They went to the kitchen, where she took another mug from the cabinet. She didn’t even ask, just poured him coffee. “Dad, I’ve told you this. There are some really talented bloggers. Very gifted. Have thousands of followers, reaching more people than if they published a book.”

“Well, you should get
paid
to write. That’s how they did it
in my day.” He’d gotten a few articles published in a military newsletter, so he was an expert. “People would write and get paid for their thoughts and their words. Now people offer all that stuff up for free. I told you about my dream, didn’t I?”

Her dad’s memory was getting kind of bad. He’d told her four times. She watched his shaky hands try to get the coffee mug to his lips before he pressed on with the dream.

“The one where I saw your book at a bookstore, for sale? It was at the front where they put all the famous people?”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Well, you’re not going to be a famous writer if you don’t write something.”

“I’m not interested in being famous, Dad. I love to write, but it’s more for the ability to explore things, think things through, wonder about things.”

“Writers can make good money. I know a couple of generals who’ve written some bestsellers in their retirement.”

Her dad was a Marine. It had been expected of Jules to find the
hoorah
in every part of her life. And she had. She’d found Jason.

Jules sighed.

They’d done this so much that her dad had gotten good at retorting himself. “I know I get pushy about this stuff. I just know how talented you are, Juliet. You could make it as a writer if you’d try. You’ve got to stop moping around this house, you know? Get out, enjoy life again.”

She couldn’t hate him for it, but she resented it all the same. With his flattop haircut, now gray at the temples, and
his angular face that held the bluest sparkling eyes, he would never be able to totally get on her bad side, but he’d given it a good run for many years. He was pushy, opinionated, and completely lacking in self-awareness, but he’d been in three wars, so he always had at least some grace with her.

“I’ll get something out there. I’ve been working on a few things.”

“You have? See!” Then he frowned. “Are you just telling me what I want to hear?”

She only smiled.

“I was thinking of taking a little road trip next month, down the coast. What do you think?”

“Nah.”

“What could be so bad about a road trip? What else do you have to do?”

She shrugged. “I have things to do.”

He chugged his hot coffee the way only a Marine could, then slammed the mug down on the counter with a small smile. “A bit tame. I like mine real black.”

“That’s why you have your house and I have mine.”

“Your way of turning down my offer, again, for you to come live with me?”

“I like it here,” she said. “Trust me, I’d get on your nerves very fast. I get on my own nerves.”

“Not possible. I want you to give it another thought. Think it through completely, not just your first instinct. Like I told my men, instinct can carry you an awful long way, but full analysis can save your life.”

She smiled warmly at him, the kind of smile that lets a dad know his little girl is going to be okay. She’d become good at faking that smile. He looked like he was about to burst at the seams, so she threw him a bone.

“I sort of got a story idea last night while I was
 
—”

“Go with that! Yes! Someplace to start already and it’s not even lunchtime. There’s a reason Marines rise before sunup. We put more into life before breakfast than most people put into their whole day. You got my blood in you, baby.”

“I am fully pepped.”

“When you were born,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist as they walked to the door, “I was disappointed. I already told you this story.”

“You wanted a boy.”

“I wanted a boy. I’m so glad it was you instead.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Dad, don’t worry so much about me, okay?”

“I wouldn’t if you ever left this house.”

“This is a good, safe place for me.” And it was. She still felt connected to the world, through a twenty-inch screen.

“I may go fishing tomorrow.”

Doubtful. It was starting to get too cold, for one thing. He had good intentions, but they rarely saw the light of day. “Have fun.”

“Maybe we can have a fish fry, invite some of these neighbors you refuse to get to know.”

“I know all the people I need to know.” She gave him a little help out the door. “Off you go.”

He gave her a white-flag wave and climbed into his truck. A sadness sank into her soul as she watched him go. That was the best part of his day. It was all downhill from here.

Back at the computer, she took a long, slow sip of her coffee and stared at the blinking cursor. Ugh. It was so hard to say what she needed to say about Patrick Reagan, but at the same time, she knew people read her blog for her honest opinion. And her honest opinion was that he just didn’t have what he used to.

She typed the words carefully:
I can’t put my finger on it.

His stories still contain the fast-paced plot, the heroic law enforcement character, and the surprise twist.

But it’s like he had magic in his fingers once. And now that magic is gone. He can still type, still use his fingers in remarkable ways, but maybe the curtain has been pulled back a little and we’re seeing the wizard as he is for the first time.

What causes writers to lose their magic? Maybe they don’t even know. Maybe every writer has only so many genuinely birthed stories, and after that, they’re just cranking the levers and using the smoke and mirrors to try to sell us on the idea that we should suspend our disbelief.

I’m his biggest fan. Patrick Reagan is still one of the finest American writers with which we’ve been gifted. He always will be. But maybe our expectations exceed what he is capable of.

THE LION’S MOUTH had all the right elements. Great premise: a Secret Service agent must determine if a president under whom he once served is corrupt. But at the end of the read, I didn’t really care what happened to the character. Any of the characters. And that’s the very first thing a reader must do: care.

Everything from the plot to the dialogue seemed to fall flat. I felt like grabbing the book by its jacket cover, shaking it, and saying, “Don’t tell me it’s terrifying. Terrify me!” And that’s where the most problematic issue lies, I believe. He’s telling me how I should feel about what he writes. Yet every great storyteller knows it’s the fine art of taking me by the hand and showing me that has the most effect on a reader’s soul. It’s how writers slip it all into us while we’re not looking. While we’re reading words, they’re making magic happen, and when that magic lands right in our hearts, we’re theirs forever.

I am in mourning. But I am confident that one day soon, Patrick Reagan will capture me again.

IN WISSBERRY, MAINE,
the speed of traffic was never a problem. In fact, from a law enforcement perspective, it was one of the best places to work if you weren’t a thrill-seeker type.

Today, for Chris Downey, the traffic was unnerving, like the drawl of a slow-talking Southerner you needed fast information from. Chris gripped the steering wheel and clenched his jaw, trying not to lose his temper. This wasn’t an emergency call at all. It was barely a call that should be taken seriously. But Chris knew
 
—when this man was involved, it would be no ordinary call.

On Bartleby, he accelerated even though it was a narrow,
graveled road that was going to force him to rinse the dust off his car later.

At the top of the small hill, the house came into view. His stomach turned at the sight of it. His skin instantly dampened and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

On the front porch, Chris saw him
 
—a hulk of a man who filled any doorway he passed through. It was the first day of bitter cold temperatures, and even from a distance, Chris could see the Lt. Colonel’s breath freezing in front of his face in rapid bursts.

Chris parked his car and composed himself. Lt. Colonel Franklin was an overbearing brute and Chris needed to be as professional as possible. Emotionally detached. And firm. He took in a deep breath and started to open the car door.

But before Chris could get it all the way open and stand up, the Lt. Colonel was standing so close he could barely climb out. Chris maneuvered to shut the door behind him and then turned, staring up six inches to meet his eyes.

Chris wondered if the man would even remember him. He stood straight and adjusted his jacket, pulling on his winter gloves after taking off his sunglasses.

“Lt. Colonel, Sergeant Chris Downey.” He offered his hand and the Lt. Colonel shook it with the force of a man who could probably kill him using his bare hands. Marines were kind of crazy anyway, but this one was known around town to be, at the very least, pushy and peevish. Although the Marines typically called lieutenant colonels simply
Colonel
, Jim Franklin insisted on the full title. And he’d always gotten his way.

Chris stood straight, trying to grow out of his shadow. “We met a couple of years
 
—”

“I remember.”

“So tell me what the problem is.”

His face turned red. “The problem? My daughter is missing! What are you, some kind of moron? Didn’t they tell you that when I called?”

Chris pulled out a notepad. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. When is the last time you saw
 
—?”

“At 0900.”

“What day?”

“Yesterday.”

Chris kept his expression even because he didn’t want to upset the already-upset Lt. Colonel, but Jules had been missing barely over twenty-four hours. There were a billion reasons that could apply.

The Lt. Colonel stepped forward into space that wasn’t really there. “Downey, I’ve got a gut feeling. Analytically, I get that this isn’t alarming. But my gut feeling, coupled with intelligent analysis, has saved my life and my men’s lives in places that you’ll only see in your nightmares.” He stopped, took a deep breath, cutting his hand back and forth over his flattop. Then, quieter, he said, “Something is wrong.”

“Tell me what makes you think that.”

“I visit her often, always at the same time. She’s always up, has always made coffee, is always at her computer working on that ridiculous blog she thinks is going to change the world. I told her she needs to publish a book but . . .” He
stopped himself, put his hands on his hips. “The point is, she is always here.”

“Maybe she’s out for coffee or ran to the store?” Chris looked around. “Is her car here?”

“Yes, in the garage.”

“Does she usually walk to the store or drive?”

“Both. She prefers to walk, to cut through the woods. But this is when she writes. She would be here.”

“Any chance there was some kind of emergency with someone she knows, that she would leave unexpectedly?”

“No.”

“No? No possibility?”

“Young man, if you know anything about my daughter, then you know she doesn’t leave her house often, and she doesn’t have friends.”

Chris looked down, trying to hide the guilt he knew would be shining in his eyes. “I do know about her. . . . I mean, not a lot. Not like you. But . . .” He looked away, up to the house. “We used to be friends.”

The Lt. Colonel nodded. “I know he was a great loss to you.”

Chris tucked his notepad away. “Why don’t I step inside.”

“It’s locked.”

“You have a key?”

The Lt. Colonel looked sheepishly at his shoes. “She took that away about a year ago. I guess I was getting on her nerves.” But he unexpectedly smiled. “Of course, the absence of a key never stopped me before.”

Chris laughed. “Okay, well, technically I shouldn’t encourage a break-in, but let’s see what we can do here, trusting there will be minimal property damage.”

“Nobody will even know we were here. Pay attention,” the Lt. Colonel said, walking toward the house. “I learned this in special ops.”

Using a splintered matchstick, he had them inside in less than three minutes. The house was quiet, tidy, and smelled like vanilla and some kind of fruit, maybe blackberries. Chris walked around, carefully observing, but nothing seemed out of place. He remembered Jules being very neat, a product of having a military father. Her bed was made. There looked to be no signs of distress anywhere in the house. From what he could tell, she’d taken her wallet, purse, and keys. Adding that to the fact that the front door was locked, he concluded she’d probably walked somewhere, which wasn’t unusual for this town. It was awfully cold, and when the cold weather hit, fewer people walked. But no snow yet.

The Lt. Colonel followed him everywhere. “See what I mean? Something is off here.”

Chris opened the dishwasher and peered in. The dishes were dirty
 
—but not freshly dirty. Coffee had dripped from the top shelf to the bottom but was dry.

Chris stood and faced the Lt. Colonel, whose arms were crossed above a slightly round belly that Chris was sure had emerged since retirement. “I’ll be honest with you, sir. There does not seem to be evidence of foul play of any sort here.
Everything is pointing to the fact that she simply left and will be back. Obviously you’ve tried her cell phone?”

“She keeps it off most of the time. It went to voice mail, but that’s not unusual. She doesn’t really like to talk on the phone.” He stared at his feet. “She doesn’t really like to talk at all.”

Chris stepped forward. “Sir, this should be an encouragement. It appears that everything is fine. I’ll tell you what. I’ll drive around town, keep my eye out for her.”

“I’ll do that too. No reason to just stand around inside this house.”

“Exactly.” Chris walked to the door. “I don’t suppose you can get this locked again with a matchstick?”

The Lt. Colonel only smiled.

“How long do I give her,” he asked at the doorway, “before I should be really worried?”

Chris tried to reel in what was certain to be a pained expression emerging on his face. The department wasn’t going to take this thing seriously for at least another forty-eight hours. Even after that, with no evidence of foul play, she could have just as easily gone on a trip, maybe to get some space. But none of those explanations were setting well with him. He didn’t admit this out loud, but he knew Jules had become a woman of rigid habits, which were not easily broken.

“Sir, you know the personal connection I have to Jules.” Chris pulled out a card, took his pen, and jotted down his cell number. “If she’s not back by sunup, go ahead and call me.”

The Lt. Colonel regarded the number, then tucked the card in the front pocket of his shirt. “I just have a hunch.”

“You’re her father. It’s your job.”

He stepped off the front porch. “Just make sure you do yours.”

Chris nodded and walked to his car. As he drove off, he glanced in the rearview mirror. The Lt. Colonel stood on the porch, the door behind him wide-open, drinking from a flask.